


and tomorrow never came

by RecklessDaydreamer



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Past Character Death, Post-Series, those are not happy tags but this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9654647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessDaydreamer/pseuds/RecklessDaydreamer
Summary: There's a bar in Uptown. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of place—brick walls, a few front windows, happy hour at 6 pm. The name of the bar is Maxwell's, and it's owned by one Daniel Jacobi.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" (Les Mis).

There’s a bar in Uptown. It’s a hole-in-the-wall kind of place—brick walls, a few front windows, fluorescent sign. Happy hour at 6 pm. On the outside it looks like a normal bar. You might guess that it has some really good house brews if you know how to ask, but otherwise it’s unremarkable.

The inside is a different story. The walls used to be full of fishing memorabilia and hunting trophies. But when the bar changed hands, the new owner brought his own décor.

The signed _Star Wars_ posters were a big hit.

The bar is called Maxwell’s. Nobody knows exactly why it’s called that. The owner and only bartender’s name is Daniel call-me-Jacobi. When the bar fell on hard times, Jacobi bought it (and the upstairs apartment) for a song and fixed it up. The first thing he did was to change the sign hanging over the door. _Maxwell’s_.

Ask Jacobi who Maxwell is, and a strange look comes over his face—distant, almost sad. “Someone I knew once,” he says. “The smartest person I ever met.”

“Who were they?” someone invariably asks.

“She was my friend,” Jacobi will say, if he’s in a good mood.

“A _girl_ friend?” someone else teases.

Jacobi rolls his eyes. “Do you want that with ice?”

(Jacobi’s “icy booze” is one of the most popular drinks. House special. But never with whiskey. Maxwell’s doesn’t stock whiskey.)

And so the conversation stops entirely, to be forgotten once happy hour is over.

But that look stays in Jacobi’s eyes. Sometimes he’ll glance to the wineglass placed at one end of the bar, half-full. He always pours a glass of red wine and sets it there before he opens. There’s an unspoken law that it is never drunk. Not by anyone.

              

Maxwell’s is a popular bar. There’s the usual after-work crowd, and the Friday-night crowd, but there are always a few college kids and tourists wandering in. Usually the two TVs are tuned to crowd’s-choice sports and a bad sci-fi channel. Often the regulars show up at happy hour and stick around late into the night. Jacobi has grown used to them, and they to him. Tonight, post-rush, there’s a few tables still full, as well as most of the stools at the bar. Jacobi is sipping a beer—Hanged Man, a local brew—and chatting with the group at the bar, occasionally setting down his drink to pour another round.

It’s getting later, and there’s an easy atmosphere of alcohol and well-worn conversation, so nobody notices the two people in suits until they’re standing right at the bar. A man and a woman, both expressionless but no less ghoulish for it.

Jacobi sets a glass of beer in front of a customer and turns to address the suits. “How can I help you?” There’s something not altogether friendly in his eyes, and he adjusts his stance silently, weight settling evenly over both feet.

The woman pulls out her wallet and flashes an ID. It looks official. Government official. But it’s not, unless Goddard Futuristics has finally taken over the world after all.

Jacobi’s breath catches.

“Can we talk in private?” the second suit asks.

“Yeah. Back here.” Jacobi waves them around the bar and tells the room at large, “Back in a minute.”

His… visitors… look strange in the small kitchen. Too starched, maybe. Jacobi says, “What do you want?”

“I’m Esther Lake,” the woman says. “This is Aaron Driscoll.”

Jacobi waits.

“Colonel Warren Kepler is going to trial,” Lake says.

“What for?” Jacobi leans against the sink.

“Corporate espionage, unfair treatment of subordinates, manslaughter, and murder. He’s being tried on behalf of Isabel Lovelace.”

“And we want you as a witness,” Driscoll says.

“For him? Screw that.”

“Mr. Jacobi—”

“I’m done.” Jacobi says it flatly. “I’m done jumping for you assholes. So don’t try to con me into working for you again.”

Lake sighs. “Goddard Futuristics would be extremely grateful if you were to witness for Colonel Kepler.”

Jacobi laughs sharply. "I won't say it again. _Fuck off_."

The suits glance at each other. Lake checks her watch. Driscoll says, “Goddard records, regardless of libel spread by Ms. Lovelace, show that Alana Maxwell’s death was caused by the Hephaestus crew—whether they acted intentionally or not—and that the Colonel did everything in his power to prevent it.”

Jacobi feels himself go still. Not spooked-deer still. Tiger still, the deadly kind of silence that raises hellfire. He picked it up from Kepler— from the man, or from working with him.

“Your file,” Lake says, “indicates that Colonel Kepler holds your loyalty in the highest regard.”

“Not me. My loyalty. And he doesn’t even have that anymore. Please…” Suddenly he doesn’t even have the energy to cuss them out. “Just leave.”

They do.

Jacobi rakes a hand through his hair and straightens his shirt. Then he strolls back out like nothing happened. “Hey, guys. Sorry about that. Can I get you anything?”

He relaxes only slowly, still glancing time and again toward the pistol tucked away in a cabinet behind the bar.

 

“So where’d the name come from? Maxwell’s.”

That damn question again. Jacobi sighs. He’s about to tell the kid to go home and get his degree, but…

It’s late, around midnight. There’s no crowd—just a handful of regulars, this kid, and one late-nighter at a corner table. And sure, he’s had a Hanged Man or three and his judgment may not be the best, but suddenly Jacobi is so tired of not saying. Of not telling Maxwell’s story like she deserves. Sure, it’s all _“confidential”_ , but he doesn’t have to go into detail.

He sinks onto the stool he keeps behind the bar. “Pull up a chair.”

Heads turn. Whispers rise. “Is he telling—he’s really going to—are you serious?”

Jacobi meets the kid’s eyes and reaches for the wineglass. He knows where it is even without looking. He’s been putting it there since he opened Maxwell’s.

He lifts the glass and swirls it a little, letting the dim light glitter on the rim. When he takes a sip it’s sour in his mouth, like always. Nothing against the wine. But it reminds him of _(swearing at each other in sign language during fancy parties where they serve Bordeaux, that merlot Maxwell liked so much because she said it made getting shitfaced feel cultured, nights watching B movies with popcorn and cabernet, getting tipsy off Kepler’s pinot noir and mocking the whiskey speech until he caught them)_ too much.

“Well,” Jacobi says, setting the glass aside. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumors. She’s my sister. My girlfriend.”

“Sure,” the kid nods.

"Not true.”

The silence goes on for long enough that the kid finally gives up and asks, “So who is she?”

“She’s dead.”

“God. I’m sorry, man—”

“You know how she died? It was a freak accident. She cut the wrong wire. Got trapped in a room above the engines. Our CO came up with this plan to save her. All I had to do was blow up the door and get her out.”

Now everyone’s really listening. Total silence has fallen.

Jacobi continues, quiet but no more gentle than a loaded gun. “The rest of the crew didn’t think I could do it. Sure, it was risky, but I can do risky. They… they had their own plan. Spill liquid nitrogen into the room, cool it down enough to buy us the time to dismantle the door. But they miscalculated. Badly. By the time we got the door off…”  He can hardly say it. “She was gone.” _Just keep going_. “Then our autopilot went down, and she wasn’t there to take over. So that was it for the mission.”

Jacobi lets his head fall into his hands. But he keeps talking, though his voice cracks a little as he goes on. “She was like a sister. Neither of us had anyone, so we kind of adopted each other. She saved my sorry ass ten different times, you know? She was a sharpshooter. Best I’ve ever seen. And I couldn’t pay her back even once.”

“That’s not your fault,” the kid says.

“It _was_ ,” Jacobi says. He knows. He’s had plenty of time to think it over, and that’s what he’s decided.

He picks up the wineglass again. Raises it, and closes his eyes. “Alana Maxwell.” Her name is gentle in his mouth.

“Alana Maxwell.” It sounds like a room full of ghosts replies.

Jacobi sets the glass back down, just as it was, and turns to straighten the liquor bottles on the back shelf.

Nobody mentions it again.

 

By one-thirty, the last few people have trickled out. Jacobi’s about to pour himself a drink and start cleaning up when he notices that there’s still one customer left. They haven’t moved from their seat all night, tucked away in the corner.

Jacobi goes over to the table. “I’m closing up. Can I call you a ride?”

She stands to face him. “Hello, Jacobi. It’s been a while.”

“Captain Lovelace.”

“Technically I’m a civilian now. As are you.”

Jacobi sighs. “I don’t have time to deal with this.” He turns to walk away. “I’m closing up. You can leave now.”

“Jacobi…”

“Why are you here?” He turns to face her. “Don’t you have a colonel to convict or something?”

“I came to tell you I won.”

Jacobi gives her an appraising look. “How?”

"I think Goddard was done with him. They didn’t put up much of a fight. Plus… you weren’t witnessing for him.”

Jacobi goes back behind the bar. Starts washing glasses. Dump, rinse, dry. Lovelace sits on one of the stools, propping her chin on her hand. After a minute, she says, “I tried to charge him with complicity in Maxwell’s…”

“Death.”

“Yes. He’s the commanding officer. He didn’t listen to Minkowski, which forced her to take action. So she had to deploy the nitrogen. It wasn’t her fault. There’s precedent.”

“Why didn’t you charge him with that?”

“Not enough evidence. And he was already indicted for one murder. Maybe if I could find Eiffel—”

“Maxwell’s _dead_.”

Lovelace looks at him for a moment. She looks—she just looks _sad_.

“Listen,” Jacobi says. “I lost my _sister_ when Minkowski—” his voice perverts the name— “killed Maxwell.” Lovelace starts to say something; Jacobi cuts her off. “We were each other’s family. My folks kicked me out, hers tried to pin her down. And if there was one thing she hated, it was being pinned down. Being held back. Not being allowed to do everything she dreamed about.” Lovelace seems on the verge of reaching out to him. “And now she’s never going to get do any of it, because _she is dead_.” The words fill the room, harsh, like poisonous fumes and broken glass. The kind of thing Jacobi used to revel in.

“You don’t think I know how that feels?”

“No, I really don’t,” Jacobi snaps.

“I _do_. I lost my entire crew. Fisher, and Hui, and Fourier, and Rhea. They trusted me, and I couldn’t do anything, because I had no idea how. Command gave the word and Selberg—Volodin—Hilbert—that bastard murdered them.” The old berserker rage is back in Lovelace's voice, that wrath she hides so well in front of cameras and businessmen.

“And now he’s dead, and everything’s neat and tied up with a bow. You got your happy ending.”

Lovelace stares at him. “You think that’s happy?”

“Isn’t that what you were always after? Revenge?”

“Of course I wanted revenge. But it’s not—it’s not like that, Jacobi. They’re still dead. Just because _he_ died doesn’t bring them back. I want _justice_.” Lovelace leans across the bar to look him square in the face. “You know what I mean. I think you’ve always known.”

Jacobi meets her gaze, but can’t hold it for long. She’s right.

“It didn’t get easier when Kepler killed Minkowski, did it?”

“No.” Simple as that.

Lovelace nods. “She’s just another death.” There’s real sadness in her voice. Honest regret. “More blood spilled for no goddamn reason. Revenge is great, Jacobi, but it’s not going to help _you_.”

“I _know_. Which is why I’m here.”

“Running a corner bar named after your dead best friend.”

“There are worse coping mechanisms.” It comes out weak. “Look. Most of Goddard’s archives were corrupted—they released some bug. So there’s no record of her. I checked. And her family, she hasn’t seen them in years, and they probably don’t know where she is. She doesn’t have anyone left. If I don’t remember her, no one will.”

“You can’t live like this.”

“Just watch me.”

“Maxwell wouldn’t—”

“ _Don’t you fucking dare_ tell me what she’d want—”

“—she wouldn’t want you to lose yourself like this,” Lovelace snaps. “I came here to tell you that I won the case, sure. And I wanted to ask for your help.”

“My _help_.”

“But of course,” Lovelace says, all silky and persuasive. “I want to rain hellfire on Goddard and dance on the ashes, but I can’t do it on my evidence. But you had access, didn’t you? I know we did that whole puppet show around Kepler’s server, but you have to have heard things.”

“So what if I did?”

“Testify.”

Jacobi snorts and takes another slug of beer.“On what charge?”

“Fraud, espionage, murder. Anything I can get the SI division for.”

“You can do that?”

“Hell yes. New York Central and Hudson Railway v. United States. 1909.”

Classic Lovelace. First Kepler, next the world. “What would that even do? You can’t just arrest Goddard.”

Lovelace shrugs. “No. But… public scrutiny, for one thing. And they can be put on probation. Maybe they'll even stop bothering me for lab tests.”

“Would it be enough to stop them?” Jacobi asks, slowly.

“I hope so.” She stops, restarts. “I don’t know. But if we can get the word out, if we can get the law involved, maybe something will happen.” In the dim light, Lovelace looks like nothing so much as an avenging angel. She never lost her military posture or the commanding tilt of her chin, and the wisps of hair that have worked their way free of her ponytail make a dusky halo. “For Minkowski and Maxwell,” she says, “and my crew.”

“And Hera.” Maxwell wouldn’t want them to forget Hera. Not after— everything.

Lovelace nods. “And Hera.” She gives Jacobi a questioning glance. “So you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Lovelace doesn’t say anything more. Just stands, places a business card on the bar, and reaches across to rest a hand briefly on Jacobi’s shoulder.

And then she’s gone, leaving Jacobi alone.

He finishes washing the glasses, then closes the liquor cabinet and sits down behind the bar. The last half inch of beer in the bottle glows amber-green in the light from the street. Jacobi has taken a liking to Hanged Man, but tonight the logo—a stick-figure casualty—looks like it’s mocking him. He downs the last of it and rolls the bottle idly across the bar. It hits Lovelace's card and stops short of the edge.

“Alana?”

No reply. Of course, he never expected it. But it makes him feel better to listen.

 


End file.
